


Brothers In Arms

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Series: Side By Side [4]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Leofric Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Uhtred and Leofric's journey continues in the quest to unite England.An AU for the fourth series.
Relationships: Leofric/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Series: Side By Side [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/687267
Comments: 117
Kudos: 51





	1. Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here I am, back again! I make no promises on update speed, because although all I want to do is binge-watch all the episodes and write, I still have to work.
> 
> Also, I know I normally try and stay as consistent to canon as I can (ignoring the very obviously alive Leofric sized hole in that statement), but I just don't dig Uhtred/Aethelflaed so I've chosen to go full-steam ahead on Uhtred/Leofric and Aethelflaed/Aldhelm.

They make their return to Coccham in the months following Edward’s coronation.

It is, perhaps, partly a dismissal, with the new king already becoming reliant on his wife’s father for direction. Lord Aethelhelm has never looked upon Uhtred kindly, and with Alfred no longer able to extend his trust, it is easier for them to employ a tactical retreat from Winchester whilst Uhtred remains in the king’s good favour.

Hild does not go with them.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a tear shaking free to roll down her cheek, “but I cannot leave here, now. Winchester needs an Abbess more than Coccham does, I think.”

Uhtred’s answering laugh is shaky. “I think perhaps you are right.” He does not look over at Beocca as he says it. “Take care of him,” he murmurs, low.

Hild takes his hand gently between her own. “I will, of course. Always.”

“Take care of yourself, too,” Leofric tells her, pressing her shoulder with all the sympathy and understanding he can put into the gesture.

They have each suffered too many losses within these walls. Hild is by far the strongest of them to remain here and bear those memories alone.

* * *

Young Uhtred is the next to leave their company. For all Leofric’s assertions that the baptism forced on the children would have no lasting effect in separating them from their father, in the boy’s case, lengthy absence from the church serves only to wear upon his soul than reunite him in common cause.

Uhtred is, at first, reluctant to write to Beocca and Hild to ask for their assistance in returning his son to the care of priests. He is surly and irritable for long weeks. Leofric knows better than to interrupt such brooding or to attempt to tackle it.

It is Osferth who finally gets through to him, employing a level of tactful persuasion previously unseen, though likely learned from Gisela.

Leofric enters the hall in time to hear the end of his nephew’s speech, and when Uhtred looks over, it is to find him frozen in awe, halfway across the stone.

“A convincing argument, I’d say,” Leofric suggests, returning Osferth’s proud smile with a reassuring one of his own. He exchanges a quick glance with Uhtred. “I believe Finan was wondering where you’d got to,” he tells Osferth. “You’ll find him and Sihtric in the alehouse, unsurprisingly, if you wish to join them.”

Osferth, to his credit, catches Leofric’s meaning. He scrambles to his feet perhaps a little faster than can be entirely explained by his haste to leave the hall before the ensuing discussion, but he loses no dignity in the sharp exit.

Leofric takes his place next to Uhtred on the low bench.

“How can I let him go?” Uhtred asks after a while, a broken whisper into the silence of the hall. “If I do, Alfred will have succeeded in tearing both of my sons from my life. I swore it would not happen again.”

“It is no easy decision,” Leofric agrees, his hand settling on Uhtred’s thigh. “If there was anything I could say to bring you peace, I would.”

Uhtred places his hand over his. It is reminiscent of their touch from years ago, when they first discovered that Gisela was with child. “I know it,” he says. “In truth, he was lost to me before this day.”

They are quiet for a long moment.

“He will be safe,” Leofric offers eventually. It is the only comfort he can give. Uhtred’s first son was not so fortunate. He does not wish to dwell on the day they found the shrouded bundle buried in the earth, but it is not a sight easily forgotten. He presses a quick kiss to Uhtred’s knuckles, soft with apology in case Uhtred shares his thoughts.

“He will,” Uhtred agrees. “And Osferth returned to you. Perhaps in time, my son will come to do the same.”

* * *

The years that follow are the most peaceful they have known in a long time.

Coccham is once more restored to its former thriving glory with Uhtred’s return and careful leadership, erasing the sombre echo of life from its time in the hands of Alfred’s priests, devout but devoid of anything worth praising.

Stiorra grows taller and quieter, reminding them more of her mother with each passing day. She is lonelier too, without her brother, yearning for those lost childish days of youth. It is a surprise, therefore, to find her alight with excitement at the news of a visit from Lady Aethelflaed and her daughter.

“She did not mention anything to you, either?” Uhtred asks, meeting Leofric’s puzzled gaze with his own. Leofric shakes his head.

Aethelflaed and Aldhelm are similarly surprised by the girls’ tight embrace upon seeing each other.

It is Stiorra who enlightens them as they all feast together that night. It appears the two girls developed a connection during their time being schooled together in the nunnery at Winchester, and whilst they have not written since, it has done nothing to diminish their friendship.

Letters and visits from their friends in Mercia increase in regularity after that. It makes sense, too, that when Stiorra reaches the age of needing female company in her life, she should join Aelfwynn at Aethelflaed’s estate.

* * *

With Edward more intent on implementing a programme of fortifications across Wessex than engaging in battle, Uhtred’s restless mind eventually fixes on his own—reclaiming Bebbanburg.

Despite Leofric’s initial misgivings—after all, they have been close to conquering Uhtred’s homeland before, and turned away before the final reckoning—it provides Uhtred with a true purpose once more, and Leofric would never look to quench that fire within him.

Then reports reach them of Scottish raids at the Northumbrian border, threatening Aelfric’s increasingly tenuous position. It is the opportunity they have been waiting for. Suddenly, Uhtred’s ambition does not seem entirely without hope.

Uhtred decides to send Finan and Sihtric north to spy.

“I wish to go with them, Lord,” Osferth says nervously, as they huddle around the fire.

Uhtred catches Leofric’s eye, seeking his permission without words. Leofric appreciates the gesture. They are all Uhtred’s men, after all—the decision ought to rest with him alone. In matters of family, however, they are united. Leofric gives him a subtle nod.

* * *

“I think,” Uhtred muses one night, “in all the time we’ve known each other, this is the longest we’ve spent alone together, uninterrupted.”

“Is this your way of saying you’re getting bored of my company?” Leofric grunts, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk.

Uhtred presses him deeper into the furs with a pointed thrust. “Not a chance.”

There is little in the way of talking for a while.

“Although,” Uhtred grins after, propping himself on an elbow to survey the hall below, “you are messier than either of my wives have been.”

Leofric rolls his eyes. “Please don’t talk about your wives while in bed with me.” There is no heat behind the words, though. They have long since made their peace with sharing this bed together.

Uhtred’s smile doesn’t diminish but there is a deeper understanding in his eyes. He rests his hand on Leofric’s chest, over his heart.

There is a faint noise outside the hall, issuing from the town.

“Are they returned?” Leofric wonders. Uhtred climbs out of bed and makes his way down the ladder. “At least put a shirt on,” Leofric calls, finding one on the floor and throwing it down to him. “I don’t need you scarring my nephew for the rest of his days.”

Uhtred smirks up at him. He does, thankfully, dress.

There is no one beyond the doors.

* * *

Their friends return a few days later, in jovial spirits.

Leofric pulls Osferth into a hug the moment he clambers from the boat. “It is good to see you well.”

“And you, uncle,” Osferth smiles, his gaze returning to where Finan and Uhtred walk ahead. “Did he drive you mad?”

Leofric laughs loudly, clapping his nephew on the shoulder as they turn to follow them towards the gates. “A little,” he agrees. His eyes drift to Finan. “Did _he_ drive _you_ mad?”

“Occasionally,” Osferth admits, then blushes.

Finan is appraising Uhtred of the situation in Northumbria as they draw close. It seems the Scots have dared to attack the fortress as they push south.

“So, Bebbanburg’s weakened,” Uhtred says. There is the thrill of a fight alight in his eyes. “With an army, we could take it.”

“It will not be easy,” Finan says.

“It never is,” Leofric mutters. “But it is the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

Uhtred nods. There is a lifetime of promise in the single glance they share. “We should not delay,” he agrees. “We head to Bebbanburg before the Scots return. The gods are telling us to strike and take back what is mine.”

“It’ll take ships and men,” Finan warns. “The venture could cost you all your silver.”

Now, at least, Uhtred has silver to lose. Leofric thinks of their ill-gotten gains in the sacking of Cornwalum, surrendered to the Church, and their conversation in the woods at the edge of the Tamar—the hope they both shared in seeing this day together.

* * *

They set out to Winchester the following morning. There is something brightly inspiring in Uhtred’s fierce determination, preventing Leofric from sharing his quiet misgivings about their course of action.

In all the time they have known each other, Wessex has never deigned to reward Uhtred with the thing he desires most. A new king on the throne is no guarantee of success.

Winchester holds further promise than simply raising an army, however.

Hild is more radiant than ever, and if she trembles a little in Leofric’s arms, there is only Uhtred to see it. The pride and hope in her eyes hearing of their mission is a reminder of how long they have all waited to see this day—and no one more than Uhtred.

“Join us,” he asks Hild hopefully.

“Oh, I think my fighting days are over, Uhtred,” she murmurs. Her refusal is soft but absolute, and Uhtred would never dare to press. Grief and trauma forged her into a warrior, but faith has returned her to peace. It would be no victory to erase that.

* * *

History, it seems, is forever doomed to repeat itself. Uhtred storms from the king’s court in a foul mood, his request denied. Edward has clearly inherited his father’s uncanny ability to rile him.

Leofric dreads to think it, but they may have seen more success with Alfred, this time. Reclaiming Bebbanburg will provide a foothold into Northumbria and a chance to unite the kingdoms. It is clear that Alfred’s vision is not shared by his son’s father-in-law, however.

Uhtred remains undeterred, the fire within him only burning brighter. By the time Osferth finds them in the alehouse, the decision is made.

“The plan is unchanged,” Uhtred informs them. “We head to Bebbanburg.”

* * *

“It’s getting in to Bebbanburg, that’s the problem,” Finan says later, as they walk towards the stables.

Sihtric does not seem to consider that an obstacle. “I say we just turn up and ram the gate.”

“Or we just ask nicely to be let in,” Finan returns. “Next idea.”

Osferth, walking next to Leofric, smiles at a passing nun. Finan turns to him almost instinctively, taking his arm.

“We are not dressing up as nuns.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Osferth protests, but he is not entirely successful at hiding his smile.

Hild emerges from the nunnery as they pass, with a message for Uhtred. Lady Aethelflaed is in the gardens beyond, waiting for him. Uhtred exchanges a worried glance with Leofric, no doubt thinking of Stiorra. He follows Hild into the nunnery.

Leofric turns back to the men just as Osferth taps Finan on the chest in a triumphant gesture. “Ladders!”

* * *

Uhtred returns with an answer to their problems. Aethelflaed has received news that her husband is sending monks to Bebbanburg to strike a bargain for the heart of St. Oswald.

“It is of importance to the Mercians?” Uhtred says, looking to Leofric.

“It is sacred, yes,” Leofric replies. He has not felt part of Mercia for many long years, but there are some things that cannot be unlearned.

Uhtred lowers his voice further. “Aethelflaed thinks if we intercept the monks, we can gain entrance to the fortress.”

“Now, that is a plan,” Finan says.

“A good one,” Osferth agrees, his smile deepening as Finan throws his arm around his shoulders.

“If we leave now, we should make it to the monastery by nightfall,” Uhtred says. He turns to Sihtric. “We will need another beast, a small one.”

“Why the extra horse, Lord?” Finan asks.

“It’s for a priest,” Uhtred says. Leofric looks to him in surprise. “One I hope will be glad to see me.”

* * *

They bid goodbye to Beocca and Hild by the palace steps.

“Goodbye, pure and holy Abbess,” Uhtred murmurs, pulling Hild into a hug.

Hild laughs softly. “Goodbye, you bloodthirsty heathen.” She hugs Leofric next. “And you, dirty Saxon.”

Leofric presses a quick kiss to her cheek, laughing as she wrinkles her nose playfully.

“Keep each other out of trouble,” Uhtred says, looking from her to Beocca.

“I would say the same to you,” Hild smiles, “but I know I’d be wasting my breath.”

* * *

Young Uhtred is not as pleased to see his father as Uhtred hoped. There are still too many recriminations between them for time alone to solve, especially when that time has been spent apart.

“That’s Alfred’s legacy,” Uhtred fumes. “The man torments me still.”

The bastard thinks, Leofric doesn’t say. He knows Uhtred is thinking it anyway.

Their rescuing of Uhtred’s son does not go unnoticed, however. Despite initially refusing to join their crusade north, Beocca arrives in Coccham, claiming to have been drawn by reports of the abduction of a young deacon. It is a thinly veiled excuse. Beocca has waited as long as Uhtred to see this reckoning, and it is no surprise to find he could not resist, either.

“You came to help me become a better father,” Uhtred allows.

Leofric cannot help but think that without Alfred’s interference, Uhtred would have no need of help. They have all been a family before—hopefully one day they can be united again.

* * *

They prepare to depart for Northumbria the next day.

Young Uhtred sits distantly on the bank, watching as they pack the boat. He has not exchanged a word with his father since they arrived in Coccham. It is hard to reconcile the dutiful son with the boy in priest’s clothing before them.

“Go to him,” Leofric says, catching Uhtred eyeing him sadly.

“He is—”

“Your son. Whatever else has happened, that is still true.”

When Uhtred returns, it is with his son in tow. Although the boy looks no happier, he climbs into the boat without complaint.

Uhtred takes his seat next to Leofric. “To Bebbanburg,” he murmurs.

Leofric reaches for his hand and presses. It means more to him than he can find words to express, being by Uhtred’s side in this moment, as they strive for the realisation of a dream that has stretched across all their years together.


	2. Episode 2

The long hours of daylight and favourable conditions make for swift sailing.

With luck, they will make it to Grimesby in time to locate the monks, rather than taking any risk in pursuing them further north along the coast.

“What’s your plan, then?” Leofric asks one day, as he and Uhtred sit together at the prow. “Once we have intercepted the monks and the boy has gained entry to Bebbanburg, how are we to follow?”

“There is a path,” Uhtred tells him, “hewn from stone, hollowed into the cliff from fortress to breakwater. Used for trade, mostly.” His expression darkens noticeably. “Not all of it grain and pelts, these days.”

“Slaves,” Leofric concludes, throat tight.

Uhtred nods, chagrined. They share a moment of uneasy silence.

It is broken by the sound of Finan’s booming laugh issuing from the benches, where he is deep in conversation with Osferth. A reminder that cruelty cannot take everything from a man.

For Aelfric, though, it will prove to be his undoing.

* * *

A few days in, the wind begins to howl, forcing rough waves to crash against the hull.

It is nothing like the storm they endured on the slave ship, yet Leofric remains close to Uhtred anyway.

After a long couple of hours fighting against the weather to carve out any progress, Uhtred’s frustration is stretched taut, then snaps. He pulls out a knife and raises it to his wrist.

“Uhtred,” Leofric says, stilling his hand.

Uhtred’s eyes are understanding but uncompromising. “Think of all you have done for me, and then allow me this,” he murmurs. “It is no hardship.”

Leofric’s thumb brushes across the faint scarring on his wrist. He may have shared Uhtred’s shackles willingly, but the memories, like the marks they bear together, will never fade.

He would say something further, but becomes aware of the weight of Young Uhtred’s gaze on them. Leofric releases his hand.

Uhtred takes it as permission, slicing the blade neatly through skin to spill blood into the waiting waves.

“Rán can be a vixen,” Uhtred informs his son. “This should settle her.”

Young Uhtred is not impressed. “Rán is pagan lies. I pity you for believing it.”

Uhtred seems to take the jibe in good spirits, allowing Leofric to wind and secure a bandage around his wrist. Young Uhtred’s watchful eyes do not leave them.

“Tell me the truth,” he scowls. “In the plan you are hiding from me, am I the bait?”

Uhtred shakes his sleeve over the bandage. He presses Leofric’s arm gratefully before turning to his son.

“Nothing is hidden from you,” he says. For once it is true. “We are tracking monks who have entry to Bebbanburg. You will befriend them, enter Bebbanburg and open the sea gate to us.”

Coming from Uhtred’s mouth, it sounds simple—yet they both know it would be difficult for any man to achieve without risking discovery. Naivety may prove to be the best defence.

“I think you have another reason for dragging me into your revenge,” the boy grumbles. Alfred’s machinations have clearly had a lasting impact on his good opinion. He is no longer the guileless, trusting child of old.

“Yes,” Uhtred replies, “so you may win honour and reputation.” Leofric can tell his patience is wearing thin.

Finan settles opposite them, his back against the hull. “You cannot force a boy to be a warrior,” he points out.

Leofric meets Uhtred’s gaze. It is enough to know their thoughts are the same. Some boys do not have the luxury of choice.

* * *

They berth in Grimesby the week before Ascension. If Aethelflaed’s information proves correct, the monks ought to be close to sating themselves of the town’s delights and soon setting out for Bebbanburg.

“So, where do we start?” Finan asks as they enter the square.

Uhtred exchanges a smirk with him. “Where do you look for monks in a place like this?”

“St. Colman’s?” Young Uhtred suggests. He has much to learn about the world beyond the confines of the Church.

“The whorehouse,” Finan informs him with glee.

It is the final straw for the boy.

Uhtred does not prevent him from returning to the boat with Beocca. This is not a welcoming place for a priest and a deacon. It will be easier, too, for the rest of them to blend in without their company. Leofric looks to Osferth and wonders if he ought to have done more to shield him from this way of life.

* * *

The alehouse is no more welcoming than the town outside.

“Grimesby seems like a lovely place,” Finan mutters.

“I hear the oysters are delicious,” Osferth returns. There is a quiet confidence to his bearing, learned over long years. He is far from the baby monk who nervously introduced himself in Winchester. Leofric knows, now, that his nephew can handle himself.

It is lucky he can. A hush descends over the tavern as the occupants turn to stare at them.

“What’s your business here?” the innkeeper demands.

Uhtred shifts his weight evenly to widen his stance. It is the smallest tell, and Leofric is likely the only one who notices. With luck, they will not need to fight these men.

“We’re traders,” Uhtred says, “taking pelts to Frankia.” There is nothing in his voice to betray them.

The innkeeper appraises them for a moment longer, then relents. “Well, you keep trouble out of my alehouse, agreed?”

“Hey, we’re just hungry for some food, nothing more,” Finan assures him.

“And do you have women?” Uhtred asks. He jerks his head towards Osferth. “He needs a woman.”

“We’re not that sort of alehouse,” the man protests.

They do not have time to play along with the charade. Silver is the quickest way to slice through a lie. Finan tosses the man a coin.

“Why do I always have to pretend to be the virgin?” Osferth moans, as they make to follow the innkeeper into the back.

Uhtred’s eyes are full of mirth. “Because no one would believe I am the virgin.”

“Cover your eyes if it gets too much,” Leofric advises his nephew. He returns Uhtred’s smirk. “That goes for you, as well.”

* * *

Once Uhtred and Osferth have confirmed that the monks are within the alehouse, there is nothing to do but wait for them to leave.

As night deepens, the drunken men of Grimesby become even more menacing. It is a relief that the monks do not choose to remain within for a final evening of recovery from their exertions before departing for Bebbanburg.

“We should not arrive before them,” Uhtred says, watching closely. “The rocks around Bebbanburg do not treat ships kindly.”

“So, we wait here and enjoy the atmosphere?” Finan grimaces.

A brief look at the amassing crowd is enough to make the decision for them. Once Uhtred has led his son to a horse and seen him safely after the monks, they beat a hasty retreat themselves.

* * *

Another few days of sailing brings them within sight of Bebbanburg, the fortress rising impressively from the cliffs like a sharp extension to the rock.

“All the times we spoke of this moment,” Uhtred murmurs. “Do you remember the first, in Cornwalum?”

Leofric cannot tear his eyes from the fortress. “We were still in Wessex as I recall, on the edge of the Tamar.”

“You do remember.”

“Of course I do,” Leofric says softly. “It’s where I first knew I wanted to join you.”

“I think it was before then,” Uhtred teases.

Beocca approaches them from the mast, taking his place at Uhtred’s other side. “As magnificent as ever it was,” he murmurs.

“Indeed,” Uhtred agrees. His voice is hushed with awe. “If it is real and not a dream.”

“It is real, arseling,” Leofric says.

Uhtred turns to him with a soft smile at the name. “We made it,” he says.

Servitude may have cost them years in the pursuit to secure Uhtred’s homeland, but if they have been bound together, it has been a deliberate choice in the hope of seeing this moment by each other’s side.

* * *

They row as close to the rocks as they dare, keeping under the shadow of the cliffs to reach the final headland before the fortress.

Finan and Sihtric take first watch as night falls on the sixth day, up on the crag overlooking the bay.

“Has he given the signal?” Uhtred asks, as he and Leofric climb up to relieve them of their positions after a couple of hours. The sign is expected tonight.

“Lord, nothing,” Finan replies, surrendering his view gratefully.

“Get some rest while you can,” Uhtred tells them. “If all is well, we should not be waiting long.”

It may be so, but the passage of time seems strangely distorted as they stare into the unchanging darkness, crumbling damp stealing across their skin.

“Did you see that?” Uhtred says suddenly, shifting beside Leofric. “I thought I saw...” He blinks into the distance, uncertain. If there was a light to cut through the shadows, it was snuffed quickly.

Leofric fixes on the flickering torches with renewed determination. The next time, he does not miss it. Flames fall from the ramparts to burn a path into the darkness.

“It’s the signal,” Uhtred cries with relief. He leans in and presses their foreheads together.

“Uhtred,” Leofric says, partway between fierce and gentle. It is both a plea and a lasting reminder of his love, hanging in the silence between them.

Uhtred’s hand slips into his for a brief moment and squeezes. “I know.”

* * *

They take a small number of men with them along the coast, leaving the ship safely hidden. It would be too risky to chance discovery at this late stage. The rocky outcrop leading to the sea gate is a perilous clamber, but they subdue the guards there with ease.

Uhtred squints into the consuming darkness of the cavern, seeking his son. Young Uhtred is not on the other side.

“What do we do, Lord?” Finan asks.

They have come too far to surrender now. The gate is too heavy for hands alone, so they lash oars together, wedging them between rock and crevice to lever the gate.

Slowly, inch by agonising inch, it shifts.

“Can you get under it, Lord?” Finan pants. There is no way they can lift the gate further, but they may be able to hold it.

“Lord,” Leofric warns, eyeing the sharpened spikes with unease.

Uhtred is not deterred—as usual, the warning remains unheeded. He drops onto his back and begins to shift into the cavern.

There is a violent splintering noise as the oars rupture beneath the combined weight and pressure.

Leofric can do nothing but cry out as the gate descends. He peers desperately into the shifting shadows beyond.

Uhtred stands on the other side, shaken but unharmed.

* * *

Warning bells sound into the night.

Uhtred pauses at the steps leading towards the fortress, his desire for revenge warring against leading men to defeat. “Is it a trap?” he wonders.

“Your son is up there,” Leofric points out. “I fear we have to enter, trap or not.”

Uhtred nods, resolute. They have no fight with the men of Bebbanburg, after all. Only one soul is doomed.

The manner in which that soul is taken, however, is a shock to everyone other than the man responsible. Wihtgar, Aelfric’s son, is returned—not lost to the southern sea as previously reported.

He is not the salvation Aelfric believes him to be.

The bolt from Wihtgar’s crossbow is loosed. It does not strike Uhtred as feared. Instead, Aelfric falls from his arms, slain.

“A son does not always love a father,” Wihtgar says. “Learn from that, fool.”

Uhtred’s expression darkens. Aelfric’s family tore themselves apart in bitterness, for nothing more than greed and ambition. Any rift in Uhtred’s family is due to the scheming of others. Given chance, those wounds can be healed.

In the ensuing clamour, he and Leofric ensure that Young Uhtred is drawn behind them, protected.


	3. Episode 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure everyone's watched the episode by now/before reading this, but fair warning that there's a lil bit of character death description.

The danger is not yet over.

Uhtred’s fight with his uncle may now be ended, but as long as breath remains in his body, his claim to Bebbanburg survives. He stands, isolated in the centre of the courtyard, Wihtgar’s crossbow trained on his head.

“I will not leave a rival alive to challenge my birthright, or my bloodline,” Wihtgar says. “I will kill you, Uhtred.”

Leofric can only watch, powerless. A sword is no match for a bolt in speed and range. Through inaction or an attempt to intercede, death is the only inevitable end.

Then fate twists the strings once more.

“But first, you will watch the death of your boy,” Wihtgar crows, and turns the crossbow to ensnare Young Uhtred.

All eyes are drawn in frozen horror to the scene unfolding before them. The boy has slipped free of their protection unnoticed, and now stands alone, shielded only by the man who is to be his saviour.

The bolt is loosed, punching its way cleanly through flesh and bone to still the heart within. Beocca falls to the ground, secured by Finan’s arms.

Everything narrows to the space of one transfixed, terrified breath as Beocca takes his last.

Uhtred’s howl cuts through the night, cleaving the silence with grief.

All that follows is a blur of rage and pain, summoned by the magnitude of a loss that cannot yet be comprehended or reasoned with. It is an attack of such frenzied desperation unseen in years.

There is no time for mourning—even as Uhtred carves a violent, hard-won path to drop to his knees before Beocca, Wihtgar is ahead of them.

Leofric reaches for Uhtred, feeling his sword bite against his neck as Uhtred swings out blindly, unaware of friend or foe. Rain pours over them as though summoned by his grief.

“Uhtred, come,” Leofric says desperately, as Uhtred fixes on him and staggers to his feet. They cling to each other heavily, bowed by exhaustion and loss.

It is Finan who finally shoves them from the courtyard towards the ship.

They find it under bombardment—Wihtgar’s men firing rocks over the battlements to sink them, even as waves loom to crash over them. Somehow, amid the carnage, they manage to untie the ship.

Uhtred takes one final, lingering look at the fortress he has once more been forced to abandon, along with the only remaining family he lost there.

* * *

Dawn breaks to find them dashed against the jagged rocks lining the coast like a ferocious row of grinning teeth.

Leofric pulls Uhtred half-blind from the water, splintered wood drifting in the surf as they stagger to shore. Behind them, Sihtric helps an injured Osferth, with Finan clutching Young Uhtred to stumble onto the shingle.

They are all alive, but it does not yet feel like salvation.

* * *

Uhtred does not join them as they set up a makeshift camp in a clearing beyond the trees, stalking away even as Leofric and Finan help to bandage Osferth’s arm, Sihtric working on a sling beside them.

“What do I tell the men?” Finan asks later, drawing Leofric aside. They are both well-versed in this kind of grief.

Leofric looks over to where Uhtred sits, his solitary figure hunched on a grassy knoll overlooking the valley beyond.

“Tell them what you must,” Leofric says. Finan’s hand on his shoulder feels like a dead weight. They are all drained but trying to be strong. Uhtred does not need their sorrow to add to his own.

“We’re here when he needs us,” Finan says in understanding. “Remind of him that.”

* * *

Uhtred does not look up as Leofric drops down beside him. He does not need to. Leofric knows what he will see in his expression.

Silence is their only companion for a long time.

“My uncle was right,” Uhtred whispers eventually, fighting through broken spirit to torture himself further. “I have lost everything. Every family I had, whether it Saxon or Dane.” He stares into the bleak haze of the horizon, as though searching for the boyhood lost through bloodshed. “Without Beocca, I have no home in Bebbanburg. His death is on my hands,” he asserts, disgust turned inward. “I failed him.”

“Uhtred, you did not,” Leofric tells him, wishing vehemence alone could bring him to believe it. “You did not fail as a warrior, nor as a friend and father. It was his choice. You could not have protected him.”

“I know,” he admits quietly, the confession drawn unwillingly from his lips. It is the only concession he allows himself in the recriminations to come. “I must return and retrieve his body,” he decides, sounding strong and certain for the first time in long hours. “I led him to die among strangers, and left him in the dirt with only thieves and traitors for company. He should lie beside Thyra where his friends can grieve.”

Leofric reaches out for him, placing his hand over Uhtred’s. Vainly, he wishes Hild were with them. She would be able to find the words to soothe Uhtred’s soul. But it is a selfish thought—in truth, he is glad she did not join them, only to see another friend die.

Instead, he can give no further comfort than himself.

* * *

Uhtred has never been one to listen to reason in the mires of grief, even guided by the unwavering wisdom of Finan’s words. He is convinced that their defeat at Bebbanburg will have severed the men’s trust in his reputation.

“If they want to leave me,” Uhtred tells Finan, “you should let them go. I can no longer be their Lord.”

He retrieves something from his pack and storms once more into the trees.

Leofric finds him on the hill, where he has dug a furrow into the earth with his bare hands. He places into it the cross Hild gave him before this journey started, tears falling across silver as he buries it beneath the sod.

“He’ll have no grave,” Uhtred mourns. “No place blessed by his God.”

“He is with God, now, and with Thyra,” Leofric murmurs, placing a careful hand on Uhtred’s shoulder. “He is at peace. He would not wish to see you destroyed by grief.”

The words draw Uhtred from his knees to enfold himself in Leofric’s arms, harsh sobs racking his body.

“I thought that my destiny was to return to my home,” he whispers. All the years Leofric has known him, that has been the one constant. “Now, I’ve lost my lands and I have lost my name. I can no longer call myself Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I am nothing.” He steps free of Leofric’s clasp, and the distance feels as more than a few inches. “Fool are those who follow me. Perhaps it would have been better for you to remain Alfred’s man.”

It is a recrimination too far.

“You do not truly believe that,” Leofric says, sharp and certain, then, softly, “and more importantly, nor do I. My choice was not to follow Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I did not follow you for your lands, or the silver you might bring.” He breaches the gap between them to press his hand to Uhtred’s chest, over his heart. “I follow the man who fights, not for glory, but for his family, and for a cause far beyond himself. I follow you, Uhtred. If you choose to walk away from battle, if you turn from Bebbanburg and never return, I am with you.”

Uhtred nods gravely, but there is an allowance of peace in his eyes alongside the grief. His fingers tangle with Leofric’s. “Then all I had is not lost.”

* * *

When they depart for Wessex, it is with all of their surviving men. Uhtred may have lost faith in himself, but that belief is not shared among those who follow him.

They meet Haesten on the road south.

In the course of one evening, they learn of the sacking of Mercia at the hands of the Danes and the battle to come. Uhtred discovers, too, the identity of the man truly responsible for Ragnar’s death—in command if not in deed. Cnut’s sons are surrendered to them, in exchange for the wretched Dane’s life.

* * *

Uhtred claims Haesten’s tent as his own for the night. It is the closest to comfort they have come since leaving Coccham.

“Are we to Aegelesburg?” Leofric asks, reclining against furs as Uhtred paces beneath the canvas. If they wish to join forces with the Saxons, it is the most strategic location to meet before the battleground is set.

“I fear we have no choice,” Uhtred concedes, torn. “I would not wish to lead the men to battle so soon after a defeat, but there is not the time to delay. I owe the kings of Wessex and Mercia nothing. This is not my fight. But—”

“—Cnut will be there.”

Uhtred’s desire for revenge against Aethelwold, to seek peace for Ragnar’s soul, drove them to battle the last time. There is no chance that he would leave that fight to another, now.

Uhtred is saved from reply by his son entering the tent. It may not yet serve as a reprieve.

“I will excuse myself,” Leofric murmurs, pressing Uhtred’s arm on his way to the fire beyond.

* * *

“He spoke of Gisela,” Uhtred tells him that night, his lips grazing the scar on Leofric’s neck. There is a quiet reflection to his words as he apprises Leofric of the conversation shared with his son.

“She would be proud of him,” Leofric says. And of Uhtred, too, he thinks.

“She’d be proud of herself,” Uhtred returns with a quick smile.

If only she were here as more than a memory.

* * *

They arrive at Aegelesburg to find no army and no king.

There is only the Lady Aethelflaed within, along with a handful of loyal men and servants, and no guarantee of further armies beyond the Mercian fyrd.

The battle may be doomed before it is begun.


	4. Episode 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To write this episode was just like... a little more conversation a little less action please.

They are granted only a few hours reprieve before danger reaches them once more.

The Danes, intent on luring the Mercian armies to a battleground of their choosing, invade Aegelesburg with the sole aim of capturing Lady Aethelflaed.

She will not be taken softly—her despair and simmering rage at the loss of so many innocent children still burning in her veins. Instead, it only fuels her courage.

“Let me bargain,” she commands. “We cannot just let death come to us.”

It is akin to the ambush at the nunnery in Wincelcumb, and ends with the same vehement denial from all corners of the hall.

“Lady, you must remain here,” Aldhelm entreats desperately, as Aethelflaed is drawn further into the safety of the room. “I will do all I can to hold them off.”

Aethelflaed catches his arm briefly as he makes to move away, her fingers laid across his wrist, delicate yet steadfast. A look passes between them that Leofric recognises from those he has shared with Uhtred countless times before battle.

“Lady,” Aldhelm murmurs, his voice catching on the word. He slips from her grasp to the door.

“The barricade will not hold for long,” Leofric mutters to Uhtred under his breath. They are trapped within, denied any means of escape.

Then Uhtred’s gaze lands thoughtfully on the red-headed boys huddled in the corner. His plan is bold and reckless, as usual, but it allows them to escape with their lives.

* * *

“Cnut will hunt us as soon as he gets word I killed his boy,” Uhtred says, as they prepare to depart.

“Wasn’t that the point?” Leofric mutters, ignoring the half-hearted glare Uhtred gives him.

Their only option is to reach Tettenhall, where Aethelflaed has summoned the Mercian fyrds. With the Danes vastly outnumbering their army, a battle on their terms is the only chance to claim victory.

“Fate wants to drag us to fight for the Saxons,” Uhtred says.

“Yes, it was definitely fate that dragged us into all of this,” Finan drawls, each word laced with sarcasm. “Uhtred had nothing to do with it.”

“I do not seek battles, battles just seem to seek me,” Uhtred protests with a smile. “But you are right, I have unleashed a storm. This is now our fight.”

It was their fight the moment Cnut’s name was revealed to Uhtred, reopening the deep wound that Ragnar’s death carved into his heart. A loss of such magnitude never truly heals.

* * *

Their final evening of rest comes less than half a day’s ride from Tettenhall, huddled together in pairs around the fire, shrouded by trees and the creeping darkness of nightfall.

Sihtric is, perhaps, the least pleased with his evening’s companion, as Young Uhtred appears unable to remain seated for more than a few minutes, restless now that a long day of riding is behind them.

Conversation naturally turns to the impending battle, uncertainty looming from the shadows even as the glow of their confidence surrounds them.

“We’re good fighters,” Finan asserts, adding kindling to the fire.

Beside him, Osferth’s expression darkens. “When we’re all fit to fight,” he mutters sullenly, petulance masking fear.

“We’ll protect you, baby monk,” Finan says. His voice is too tight for it to sound entirely as reassurance, but Osferth returns his smile anyway.

“Stay close to me and you’ll be safe,” Leofric vows. He catches Finan’s grateful look. Neither of them could survive if Osferth sustained injuries in another battle like those at Beamfleot and succumbed.

* * *

They arrive at Tettenhall to find the valley stretching out below them, empty.

Aethelflaed’s certainty does not waver. “I sent word that the fyrds should gather in the woods. I will ready them for battle before my brother arrives.”

There are no men of Wessex waiting beyond. Instead, their ranks are swelled in number by an army of Welshmen. It is not quite the cause for celebration it first seems. Edward was not the person responsible for commanding Father Pyrlig to find allies. It was the Lady Aelswith.

Leofric exchanges an incredulous look with Uhtred. “God loves her,” he murmurs, returning Uhtred’s smirk at the memory.

“We will need more on our side than a deity and the Welsh,” Uhtred muses, surveying the battleground. “But there are worse places to defend.”

He is right. The forest reaching above them almost completely surrounds the valley, providing ample cover for hiding their armies until the Danes attack. Of most interest, however, is the large flat plain beyond, where a gaping ditch cuts a deep, jagged furrow across the earth.

If they make their stand on the opposite side from the advancing Danes, they may be able to use it to their advantage. Even fuelled by rage and the thrill of a fight, a thousand men cannot cross at once.

Uhtred’s eyes are alight with a plan.

* * *

By the time battle is heralded, with the distant rumble of hoofbeats and horns turning to a thunder, the ditch has been covered with felled trees and ferns, a carpet of forest concealing the ground, and their armies sheltered by those still standing.

The rest of them wait in the clearing, a small scatter of warriors and priests, enticing the Danes into a charge as they appear over the ridge.

Finan and Osferth clutch at their crosses, praying together, as Young Uhtred does the same beside them. Aldhelm heaves his shield between Aethelflaed and the oncoming horde.

Uhtred turns to Leofric, his eyes holding both a promise and a plea. “Not today,” he says.

“Not a chance,” Leofric agrees.

* * *

With the element of surprise on their side, the advantage weighs briefly in their favour. Danes clambering desperately from the ditch are cut down in swathes, their ranks beyond fired with arrows.

They stave off the swell of the attack as long as they are able, but there are too many Danes pushing in from behind. Eventually, with the mass of bodies thickening, both fighting and fallen, it becomes a frenzied attempt to distinguish between friend or foe.

A loud cry rises from the Saxons as they spy their salvation. Aethelred’s army joins them, attacking the Danes from the rear—then Wessex arrives, lead by Edward.

United, their combined force is at last enough to turn the tide.

Leofric sees Uhtred heading into the forest after those fleeing the field, pursued by Cnut. He cannot follow him, no matter how much he wishes to. His own battle is here, with Osferth.

* * *

They claim a decisive victory, defying all odds.

Finan’s joy at finding Osferth alive almost eclipses Leofric’s own relief at seeing Uhtred return from the forest, safe. He waits until he has spoken with Aethelflaed to approach.

Uhtred’s expression is a pained mix of grim satisfaction and sorrow.

“Ragnar is avenged, but I’ve just sent Brida to her doom,” he mourns. “The Welsh have taken her as a slave. She begged me to send her to Valhalla, but I couldn’t.” Shame draws his eyes to the ground. “I wasn’t strong enough to lose another friend. Not now.”

Leofric thinks with difficulty on his own plea to Alfred and the Witan, to face Uhtred in combat so that he could die with honour.

“There is a difference between knowing it is wanted, and making peace within yourself to do it,” he says quietly.

Uhtred’s eyes fix on him, troubled but understanding. “It is not so easy when it’s someone you love,” he agrees.

A further shadow crosses his face, then, though this time it is not from the memory of all they stood to lose. Instead, the loss is far closer.

“Leofric,” Uhtred says, hand outstretched warily, then withdrawn. “It pains me to say it, though you should hear the news from no one but me. Steapa is dead.”

Leofric reaches for him, uncaring of the men milling around them. His legs could be knocked from under him, or a spear lodged in his chest, and it would not feel dissimilar to this.

“That is a great blow for Wessex,” he manages. “Never has a man been more loyal to his country, or his kings.”

Uhtred nods in silent agreement, his hand a warm, familiar weight against the back of Leofric’s neck.

Wessex is changed for both of them, now. The world they knew is truly at an end.


	5. Episode 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through already! Smashing my own records like a boss.

They ride out for Saltwic—for Stiorra. If they are to return home, it cannot be without her.

When they arrive, the gates are barred and the doors locked beyond. The courtyard is a barren, deserted wasteland, ringing with unholy silence.

“Stiorra, open the doors!” Uhtred calls, fear warring with the command in his voice. “It is your father.”

There is another unsettling beat of silence in reply, then Stiorra’s voice issues from behind the doors, strong and unafraid despite her doubt.

It is the sound of her brother’s voice that convinces her to concede, opening the door to find that all she has wished for is truly a reality.

“We’ve come to take you home,” Uhtred tells her.

Her eyebrow rises, caught between disbelief and delight. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you through the door,” she smiles.

Uhtred laughs and pulls her into a hug, all lingering tension dissolved at being reunited with his daughter.

Leofric hesitates behind him. Stiorra is older now, carrying herself with the quiet dignity of a young woman, not the eager child he used to hoist into his arms, light as a feather, and twirl through the air with joyful abandon as her peals of delight rang out. Perhaps such a greeting would not be welcome, now.

It turns out he needn’t have worried.

Stiorra pulls away from her father with a warm smile that only widens when she turns to him. “Uncle Leofric!” she exclaims, flinging her arms around his neck and leaving him no option other than to gather her up. Her laughter sounds as a song in his ears as her feet leave the floor like a dove in flight.

“You are more beautiful every time I see you, dear one,” he says, gently setting her down. She beams up at him, her face still fitting neatly into his palm as he cups her cheek.

Her features now resemble her mother more strongly than ever. For Uhtred it must be both a blessing and a curse to see in her the living memory of his beloved wife. To Leofric, it is a reminder of the promise he made to Gisela to keep her family safe, though it seems Stiorra is highly capable of serving as her own protection.

They enter the hall to find the furniture has been arranged into a makeshift barricade.

“We made a plan if we were attacked,” she says, smiling at Aelfwynn and an unknown boy, the identity of whom Aethelflaed reveals to them later. “Father, when do we ride home to Coccham?” Stiorra asks, following Uhtred impatiently. “Tonight?”

“No, but soon,” Uhtred tells her, “once the peace is secure.”

As usual, his intentions are swiftly thwarted, though this time it is not by the Danes.

Aldhelm arrives, bearing news that Aethelred lies on his deathbed. Without a successor, Mercia is on the brink of being plunged into further turmoil. It is something Aethelflaed cannot allow.

Once more they are torn between duty and family, and once more, it is a choice beyond their control.

* * *

“You could remain here, if you wished,” Uhtred says to Leofric later, as they watch Stiorra and her brother entertaining Aelfwynn in the garden. “I would not blame you for being reluctant to leave peace behind once more.”

Leofric’s eyes are drawn to the man before him, a sight more familiar than any home he has ever known.

“I would find no peace with you gone, even if I get no peace when you’re around, either,” he quips. Uhtred’s quiet smile soothes away any uncertainty of his denial. “Like you, I do not wish to leave them, but peace for their future is more important than ours.”

* * *

They depart for Aegelesburg at first light.

“Why must you leave?” Stiorra demands as they saddle the horses. “Have you not missed me?”

“Each and every day,” Leofric confirms, feeling the weight of Uhtred’s grateful gaze on him. “But this is done so we might return home sooner.”

For once, their action is not borne out of oath or servitude—only the certain knowledge of being lead by the righteous path.

“My men will stay here and protect you,” Uhtred says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There is nothing to fear.”

She looks up at them boldly as they mount their horses. “I am not afraid,” she says.

* * *

Years of attending court alongside kings and ealdormen of Wessex may have prepared them for discussions of succession, but the situation in Mercia is more fractious than feared, like dry kindling waiting for a spark.

Then Edward arrives and sets the fire ablaze.

* * *

“If Mercia breaks from Wessex, we may never know peace again,” Uhtred murmurs one night, reaching across the space between them to take Leofric’s hand.

The lodgings they have found are small and cramped, but they have known worse. A roof above them and a mat to sleep on is enough.

“Let us pray it does not come to that,” Leofric says. “I may not have agreed with many of Alfred’s decisions, but his vision of a united England was a belief I could share.”

Uhtred shifts closer, shrouded by the safety of darkness, narrowing the respectable distance they have tried to maintain in case of being sent for.

“I share it, too,” he confesses, “though it was not Alfred who changed my allegiance.” His kiss is a ghost of breath across Leofric’s lips. “It was you.”

* * *

Edward may be trying to enact his father’s will, but his authority is threatened from all quarters, and men under threat do not always act with wisdom. The decision to station the armies of Wessex at Aegelesburg is closer to an act of war than security to ensure a smooth succession.

Then a sword is slashed through the only oath remaining, with Edward reneging on his promise to Aethelflaed. Aelfwynn’s suitor has been chosen, without first securing her mother’s approval on her betrothed.

“Armed men have already been sent to seize her,” Uhtred tells Leofric as they charge out of the gates, spurring their horses towards Saltwic.

Everyone at the estate is in danger.

* * *

By unspoken agreement, they do not pause until Saltwic comes into view below them, ashen stone rising from wildflower, and even then it is only to remain hidden from the warriors of Wessex riding through the gate at speed.

Uhtred exchanges a horrified glance with Leofric. The fate of all those they care about hangs in the balance.

They encourage the horses forwards wildly, desperately, a cloud of dust rising behind them as they storm into the courtyard.

“Stiorra!” Uhtred cries, seeing his daughter framed by the open doors of the hall. It is a mix of relief and lingering fear. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, I sent them away,” she says, unwavering, but allows them to fuss over her anyway. “I told you, we prepared ourselves for an invasion.” The pride in her voice echoes their own as they look upon the unharmed faces of their friends and the children.

* * *

They make preparations to leave immediately, following Aethelflaed’s command to head north, towards Ceaster.

It is their only chance at safety now, even as peace remains elusive.


	6. Episode 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My flailing muse finally returned half-way through this chapter! See if you can spot where lol

With loaded cart and restless children, progress is slow. Uhtred is quiet, riding next to Leofric, no doubt weighed by the knowledge of their inevitable pursuit by Edward’s men once the deception is uncovered.

Eventually, with sickening certainty, hoofbeats sound behind them. The identity of the sole rider, however, is unexpected.

It is Aethelred’s mistress, Eadith, arriving with news that Aethelflaed has been imprisoned in Aegelesburg, but freed by her hand.

“She wants you to meet her at the ruins of St. Milburg’s priory,” Eadith informs Uhtred, unafraid despite the hostility surrounding her. Admirable, but not surprising, considering the company she keeps. It would be foolish to trust her words as truth.

“That way is passed,” Leofric points out, inclined to agree with Finan even as Uhtred appears to believe her. He has long been blindly trusting of others, often to his own detriment. “If Aethelflaed sent us on the road to Ceaster, why would she choose to divert us? Why is she not caught up with us herself?”

Uhtred, to his credit, considers the words, even though he chooses to invite Eadith to remain with them. “If she’s lying, at least she’s under our control,” he tells Leofric.

It is more caution than he usually demonstrates, so Leofric concedes without further complaint. He is sworn to Uhtred, in every way that matters—to follow wherever he goes, regardless of the danger.

* * *

The threat awaiting them on the road to Wenloca, however, could not have been predicted.

Stiorra’s scream pierces both the air and Leofric’s heart, cold fear running through his veins. He leaps from his horse, sword drawn, and rushes over to find a small group surrounding her, desperation on their pale faces. Uhtred charges from the front of the convoy towards them, startling the people away. It is the bread they wanted, not Stiorra.

There is no space to be relieved—Finan and Sihtric are ahead, observing what seems, at first glance, to be an ordinary road block.

The horror in Finan’s voice when he cries out tells them it is not. “Lord, stay back! It’s the sickness. They’re dying of the sickness!”

A fearful hush descends across the forest floor, thick with suffocating weight.

Then Finan grabs Stiorra’s hand frantically to cleanse it, splitting the heavy silence and inviting a furore of fevered voices to clamour in certainty of how the sickness takes.

“Is he right?” Stiorra asks, her pale face turned to Leofric as Finan desperately entreats Uhtred to make haste away from this place. “Is it spread by touch?”

“No,” Leofric says, overcoming his own doubts to reach out and reassure her. He lays his fingers gently across hers, a kind touch to counter those that came before. She clasps his hand gratefully. “Forgive him his fear. He has seen the fever strike before and knows its toll. My own memory of it is weak.”

Leofric had been only a boy the last time the sickness plagued the land, claiming his mother before driving the rest of his family from their farmstead. Those disease-ridden fields stole the last remains of innocence not already stripped away by slavery.

“Was it swift?” Stiorra asks, a ripple of fear crossing her expression before she smooths it away. He recalls her words about Gisela, and the feeling that her own death would come at speed, from nowhere. He is not sure which answer will serve to reassure her most.

He is saved from reply by the sound of Uhtred’s voice, spurring them onwards.

* * *

To Leofric’s relief, Stiorra remains healthy as they travel across the land, with only a fever from the grasses to discomfort her.

He never desired to be a father—never had a life worth bringing a child into until he met Uhtred—but Stiorra is the closest he has come. The part of his heart not already owned by Uhtred and Osferth belongs to her.

* * *

The children are tiring by the time they emerge from dappled forest sunlight into another endless field of wildflower.

“We should be able to see the cross any moment,” Uhtred calls encouragingly, to the relief of all. Being a nursemaid wears in a different way to a warrior.

The marker rises up to greet them, priory ruins beyond, yet Aethelflaed and Aldhelm are nowhere in sight.

Despite their exhaustion, they cannot afford to delay for long. The high noon sun beats down, bright and burning. With no breeze, the air feels foul and stagnant. There is no comfort in lingering.

“She must have been here first,” Uhtred decides, holding onto his belief that Eadith’s words are not spoken in deceit. “She would have gone on to Ceaster as agreed.”

The apologetic look he gives Leofric as they fall into step together, Aelfwynn borne between them, expresses his regret at diverting their course more clearly than words alone.

* * *

Driven by the need to compensate for their lost hours of progress, Uhtred presses on ahead, relentless. Leofric fights to keep pace beside him, unwilling to yield to advancing age. Uhtred is his only gauge in such matters, and through his eyes he remains as strong as he ever was.

The sun is slowly beginning to dip below the hills when Osferth approaches them in an insistent jog.

Leofric glances in the direction he came from and finds Finan, still pale and restless, eyes darting towards Aelfwynn. The young girl’s skin is flush—perhaps from long hours of exposure to the sun tainting her fair complexion, or more troubling reasons. It is clear where Finan’s fear lies, and why Osferth is sent forth.

“How long have we been on the road, Lord?” he says, in the calm manner of one used to placating Uhtred. “Two days? And no sight of Edward’s men. They do not know the land up here, Lord.”

“He’s right, Uhtred,” Leofric says. “The children need their rest. And I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Uhtred looks indignant on his behalf, but does not dispute the sense in Osferth’s suggestion.

* * *

They head into the shade of a nearby forest, finding a large hollow beneath the roots of a tall beech, protected and easy to guard.

“This is a good place,” Uhtred announces. “We rest here for the night.”

The words are welcomed with a grateful sigh from all quarters. Even the children do not fuss when Eadith settles them, succumbing to sleep before dusk falls.

It would be too risky to chance lighting a fire, even with pyres of smoke rising from the forest for miles around. They cannot say whether those in pursuit of them would read it as a warning sign or a signal. When darkness descends, therefore, there is little choice but to bed down for a few brief hours of sleep.

“Leofric and I will keep watch tonight,” Uhtred tells the men, voice low to avoid waking the little ones. No protest is offered in response, and it is not long before they are huddled together, snoring softly.

Uhtred and Leofric settle with their backs against the tree opposite, pressed close from arm to thigh.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” Leofric remarks quietly into the stillness, with only the gentle susurration of leaves above them and the light sounds of those sleeping beyond to break the silence.

In that warm, dark moment, it is easy enough to confess the thoughts he has held within over these long days of travel.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you, for giving me a family,” he says. “And not just the children, though I know they aren’t—”

“They’re yours too,” Uhtred interjects softly, anticipating his words. “Not by blood, but through love.”

Leofric presses his hand. It is a truth he has always known, but it is a relief to hear it confirmed.

“It’s something Steapa said once, about men like us,” he admits. Steapa’s death is still a fresh wound to nurse, but pains less than the thought of him, always alone—a strong, solitary oak, unbowed. “We were never owed the right to choose where our paths led. But you saved me from the service of the largest turd in all the kingdoms.”

Uhtred nudges his shoulder in gentle humour, managing to keep his laugh within.

“You found Sihtric,” Leofric continues, “a young man unused to kindness, and showed him that we can all raise ourselves from the circumstances of our birth. And then there’s Finan and Osferth, whose souls you freed from slavery and shame, giving them a life beyond that of a simple warrior or monk. There is no debt, I know, but we owe all this to you.”

“You love me,” Uhtred says into the awed hush that follows.

“Yeah,” Leofric laughs, a soft exhale of relief.

Uhtred shifts against him, then, slow and deliberate. “Come here and kiss me already.”

* * *

After dawn’s rude awakening, and the overhanging threat of knowing themselves pursued, they set out with renewed determination. Progress is slow but steady on uneven terrain, with Uhtred choosing to keep to the leafy shade granted by the forest as much as possible to ease Aelfwynn’s discomfort.

They take rest in a glade as evening falls, where a soft cascade of water meets the ending of a brook carved through rock.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Uhtred asks, gaze compelled by the sight of Stiorra and her brother sharing a moment together, settled on the rise a short distance away.

“You, most likely,” Leofric informs him amiably. “But you’re an arseling if you think you’re no good for them. They’re no longer children, Uhtred, that time is long passed. Your son is brave, and stronger than even he realises. And Stiorra has a warrior’s soul. For all that she looks like her mother, she reminds me of you.”

Uhtred looks at him like he wants to kiss him again. He settles for a smirk instead. “I think you’re getting too wise in your old age.”

“I was always wise,” Leofric returns, fighting back his own smile. “I can’t be faulted for your ignorance of my words.”

Uhtred laughs softly, and Leofric does smile then, pressing his arm as he passes to join his children.

Leofric moves over to Finan, who seems caught between concern and fondness, his eyes on Osferth as he tends to Aelfwynn.

“He should not be doing that,” Finan mutters, acknowledging Leofric’s presence with a rueful glance. “I cannot nurse him if he sickens.”

“His kindness would allow him to do nothing else,” Leofric says, though he knows Finan is already certain of it.

Finan’s face eventually settles on a frown, brow furrowed at the friendliness displayed between Osferth and Eadith, their soft laughter carrying across the water. They cannot yet trust her intentions, though the fact she did not betray them earlier falls in her favour. Leofric suspects it is not the only reason for his friend’s sour mood.

“Be gentle with him,” Leofric says, without heat. He thinks of Osferth’s words from the day before, shame polished into honour. “There’s royal blood in the heart you hold.”

“And that of your family,” Finan returns quietly, gaze soft once more. “I know which is more precious to me.”

Leofric clasps his shoulder gratefully, too full for words. He knows they do not need his blessing—after all, Osferth knows more about such things than he—but they have it regardless.

* * *

“Let the others take watch tonight,” Leofric cajoles Uhtred gently, as darkness encroaches. “You need rest, too.”

He has seen Uhtred ail before and been powerless to prevent it. It is not something he is strong enough to endure again. The concern must show on his face, as Uhtred capitulates without argument.

They settle alongside Stiorra, Eadith and the children, in the small cavern under the falls. Eadith strikes up a hushed conversation with Uhtred, though Leofric can only hear his side of the exchange over the steady stream of water into the pool beside them.

Perhaps they speak of her brother, and the events from morning, as Uhtred murmurs that there is no honour in killing a sleeping man. There is bitterness in his tone, a remnant of the aching grief left in the wake of Ragnar’s death. Leofric slips his hand into his and presses.

“Why did you not betray us when you could?” Uhtred asks Eadith, and seems satisfied with the answer. Leofric is forced to concede that he may have been mistaken in her character. People are rarely so understanding of Uhtred’s beliefs to ask of them and listen without derision.

“Sometimes, I think the path of the warrior is my way to Valhalla,” Uhtred says. It is his turn to press Leofric’s hand. “Sometimes, I do not know.”

The quiet confession is the first Leofric has heard of this inner conflict.

Uhtred has always been unwavering in the belief of his actions leading him to Valhalla, and the lost loved ones awaiting him there—a fate in which Leofric cannot share. Saxon and Dane may coexist in this life, but their time on earth is short in comparison to that which waits beyond.

It has never seemed to matter, until now.

* * *

With relief, they stumble across a path early the next morning, confirming their heading.

“Without wind, the sickness cannot have reached this far north,” Uhtred says. “We can get some horses at the next village, move more quickly.”

This small victory is not enough to tip the scales in their favour. Hoofbeats sound behind them as though summoned by Uhtred’s words. They scatter from the path, running desperately towards a ridge beyond.

It is too late. They are seen and pursued, with no hope of losing Eardwulf and his men on foot.

There is no option left but to turn and make a stand. They are warriors, after all, and while they do not wish to shed blood in front of the children, if their hand is forced, they will to protect them.

It is Eadith who spares them from that fate, her words stilling swords and slicing through loyalty. Aethelred’s ring falls from pouch to grass as the man responsible for his murder flees across the field.

They are saved, and Eadith with them. None would question her intentions now.


	7. Episode 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly five years and over 60k words later, I've finally written the moment I always dreamed of giving them. I hope it makes you as delighted and emotional as I was when writing it!

They part once more out of necessity—an accord between duty and choice. It is within their power to ensure Aethelflaed and Aelfwynn’s safety in Mercia, restored from pursued fugitives to their rightful status.

Uhtred cannot allow himself to abandon an opportunity to bring about peace. His gods may not steer him towards the righteous path, but Leofric has always been able to trust that Uhtred will find it anyway.

* * *

It is agreed that Aethelflaed should be found and reunited with her daughter ahead of Uhtred extracting Edward’s promise that she will not be harmed. No one wishes to voice aloud the fear that she might not survive long enough to see it enacted.

Osferth determines to remain with Eadith at Aelfwynn’s side.

“She’s almost my niece, isn’t she?” he says to Leofric. His expression is set, but there is a tone of worry that Leofric understands. “It must be my responsibility to protect her. You have taught me what it means to be an uncle. I can only pray I do not fail her, as you have never failed me.”

Leofric throws an arm around his shoulder, all brash encouragement at first, the way the men often embrace each other, then softer as Osferth trembles into the hug, seeking comfort. There is a lifetime of memories in the touch, from the moment his sister placed a squalling bundle of blankets in his arms and Leofric gazed down on his newborn nephew, to the morning he was forced to bid them goodbye in the dust and dirt—his only family sent from the palace and his life.

“You have been the greatest kin a warrior could hope to have,” Leofric tells him. “I hope she will live to make you as proud an uncle as I am.”

* * *

They journey to Aegelesburg as a band of five, leaving Sihtric and Young Uhtred to ride north towards Ceaster. On horseback, they are able to make haste through land now blighted by sickness, swift and sombre.

It is still a relief to leave the road behind on approach to Aegelesburg—though caused by the need to avoid the Wessex guard rather than contagion, it serves the same purpose.

The stark, foreboding sight of the fortress nestled in the valley below them has never been more welcome.

* * *

They are granted entry through a side gate, aided by Father Pyrlig, whose reputation as a friendly priest swells in the encampment beyond the walls.

“Can you hide them?” Uhtred begs of him, indicating Stiorra and Aethelstan with a quick tilt of his head. “She’s my daughter and he is the King’s bastard.”

Pyrlig wisely does not comment on the appearance of the latter. Uhtred has not voiced it explicitly, but beyond saving him from the fever shared by his cousin, Aethelstan is brought in case of needing a bargaining counter against his father. The boy tugs Finan along with him as he goes, reluctant to part with one of the only men to ever show him kindness.

* * *

With crowds of Mercians and Wessex royals occupied by Aethelred’s funeral procession, they move unnoticed through the town.

“I know that look,” Finan mutters, as they shrink into the shadows beyond the courtyard. “You have no plan.”

Uhtred raises a considering eyebrow. “I have a plan. We tell the ealdormen who killed their lord.”

“Well, you didn’t say it was a good one,” Leofric agrees as Finan scoffs beside him. “Even if their Witan grants you an audience, there is no guarantee the King’s oath will follow.”

Uhtred only shrugs, his eyes fixed on Edward’s retreating form. “I have to try.”

“Lord—” Leofric manages, unable to bear the thought of Uhtred, unprotected, throwing himself upon the mercy of those who would sooner see him clapped in irons than yield to a belief in him.

* * *

In the end, Uhtred goes to the Witan alone, Leofric’s words of caution ringing unheeded in his ears.

He and Finan return to the building sheltering their charges to be greeted by further wilful determination.

Stiorra has taken it upon herself to offer her assistance in Father Pyrlig’s duty to redistribute the nobles’ stores of grain to the people.

“Take care, sweet one,” Leofric entreats, knowing that attempting to dissuade her will only result in renewed commitment. Uhtred’s nature is her own, after all. “Your father would not want you in harm’s way.”

She hugs him as though she knows he speaks for himself, too.

“Don’t worry,” she says, all smooth certainty over reassurance. A cheeky smile creeps onto her face. “He could no more refuse me than you can.”

* * *

Uhtred returns to them after long hours, beaten and bruised.

“I’ll find the man who did this,” Finan says, low.

Leofric swallows around his own bright burn of anger. “I’ll kill him,” he agrees fiercely. “We heard you were seized, but Uhtred, this—”

“Was not the King’s doing,” Uhtred grits out, flinching away from Leofric’s raised hand, still sore of touch. “A misunderstanding—an overreaching.”

The words alone are not enough to douse the fire within. Uhtred cannot know how the wounds appear—the severity of the bruising across his cheek, or the swelling on his right side. Nor is Leofric ignorant of the way he holds himself, standing gingerly to avoid undue pressure, no doubt concealing further injury beneath his shirt.

“But someone committed the act,” Leofric glowers. It is Uhtred’s imploring expression that convinces him to yield.

“What now?” Finan asks, his eyes roving Uhtred’s face for further direction.

“There’s nothing for us here,” Uhtred says, dispirited. “We are free to leave, and I think it wise to do so. Where’s Stiorra?”

Finan exchanges a glance with Leofric. “She’s insisting on helping Father Pyrlig,” he supplies. “We thought to dissuade her, but—”

“She’s as stubborn as her father,” Leofric mutters, though he cannot prevent himself from returning Uhtred’s proud smile.

* * *

They find Stiorra not a moment too soon. She climbs upon the grain cart to be swallowed by a clamour of desperate townspeople. An innocent girl is of less concern to a starved horde than the sacks she handles—flung to the ground as though she weighs no more than one of them.

They surge forwards, Uhtred’s rage overcoming his injuries to attack those closest to her. Finan heaves Stiorra from the floor and into the safe cradle of Leofric’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, settling a relieved hand to the back of her head. “You’re fine.”

She trembles against him, shaken but thankfully unharmed.

* * *

The relief does not last. Uhtred is escorted by armed guards to another audience with the King.

“Take Stiorra back to Aethelstan,” Leofric entreats Finan. “I will find out what I can.”

Despite the words, there is nothing he can do beyond wait for Uhtred to return from the hall. When he does, his face is more ashen than earlier, though there are no new marks of torture marring his skin.

He leads Leofric by the arm into a tavern, wordlessly. Leofric allows him to take several gulps of ale before pleading with him to find the strength to speak. The words are drawn out begrudgingly, as though vocalising them into existence feels akin to acceptance.

The price for peace is as high as Uhtred has ever paid.

“So, the bastard thinks,” Leofric mutters into the heavy silence. “Like his father.”

Uhtred scowls in agreement. “Alfred was my king. I swore to myself I would not give my loyalty to another.”

Leofric casts a careful glance around the alehouse, but no one there is paying them any attention. “We came here to ensure protection for Aethelflaed and her family,” Leofric reminds him. “Some would argue that is loyalty enough to the crown.”

Uhtred’s fate has always been inextricably linked to that of Wessex, despite all attempts to free himself of those bonds.

“But I was not born to be the Lord of Mercia,” Uhtred maintains. “I never sought that kind of power.”

Leofric yearns to reach for his hand, to give him the reassurance that words cannot.

“That does not rule you unfit for the task,” he says instead. “Mercia has suffered from being led by ambition.” Uhtred has never wished to wield power, only a sword. “Perhaps a protector is all the country needs, now.”

* * *

Although the conflict in Uhtred’s expression resolves closer to certainty over the course of the evening, he remains restless, pacing a bare strip into the dusty floor of their temporary lodgings.

Only when the candles are snuffed does he draw close to Leofric, though it soon becomes clear that sleep is not his intention.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, a soft caress of breath into Leofric’s ear. Leofric cannot read his expression in the darkness.

“Are we running away?” he manages.

“No,” Uhtred huffs. His hand finds Leofric’s and tugs. “Come on, up.”

* * *

“Do you believe you could make Mercia your home again?” Uhtred asks, as they sit together on the ridge overlooking Aegelesburg.

Torches burn softly into the darkness as they gaze over the fortress, pale moonlight casting shadows across the landscape. It is eerily beautiful—a stolen moment of peace in the tumult surrounding them.

“I had long forgotten what home meant before I met you,” Leofric admits. Councils of kings and courts of ealdormen do not constitute the same. With Uhtred as Lord, it could be different. “I would live anywhere so long as it was by your side. If you accept, you could offer us all land and titles, I know, but swear you will not require me to leave you. That is all I ask.”

“I swear it,” Uhtred vows. The furrow of his brow would be concerning if it weren’t for the sudden glint in his eyes. “You could reside in the palace with me, none would question it. We’ve always been more than just brothers in arms, after all.” He shifts to face Leofric, rather than the land soon to be his. It is clear in his gaze which is more precious to him. “I swear, no matter where this path takes us, we will not be parted.”

“You’ve said that already,” Leofric points out lamely, unable to quell the sudden nameless anticipation pounding in his heart.

Uhtred shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Leofric’s face. “Not like this,” he murmurs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I was hoping to do this at Bebbanburg, with Beocca, if that’s what you wanted. It might not be the same now, but I’ve delayed long enough, and I can’t wait years only to be denied again. If I am to accept Edward, if I am to yield to all he asks, I need to be certain that at least one of my dreams has been fulfilled.”

He scrambles suddenly to his feet, every line of his body aching with tension, but the hand he offers to Leofric for acceptance is steady and certain.

“Thyra once told me about a goddess, Lofn, who blesses unions between those unable to marry in the traditional sense,” Uhtred continues. The memory seems to bring him a measure of peace beyond grief. “I think, perhaps, she knew my wishes before I did.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a proposal,” Leofric manages. He has only ever seen this same nervous excitement in Uhtred twice before, though never directed towards him.

Uhtred’s relieved smile brightens his expression, as moonlight revealed behind a parted cloud. “It is. I know it’s not the service others are granted, but there are pledges, vows we can make to each other. A tie to bind us in this life and the next.”

For a long moment, Leofric can do nothing other than stare at him in awe. “You have a way of daring to reach for the impossible,” he mutters eventually. He has not released Uhtred’s hand, feeling his pulse racing with his own.

“It’s only impossible if you refuse,” Uhtred says easily, though his eyes rove Leofric’s face desperately, seeking acceptance.

“I asked to remain with you,” Leofric says, blinking away his amazement. It is a marvel that Uhtred still manages to surprise him, after all this time, but he cannot deny the hope they both share. “I do not wish to refuse this. By Lofn’s grace, let us be bound together.”

* * *

They stand facing each other to make their vows, joy overcoming uncertainty. Theirs is a love to transcend faith—a union beyond altars and priests and the binding of hands.

“The custom is to exchange swords of our ancestors, but perhaps we can simply cross ours,” Uhtred suggests, hand on the hilt of his own, amber glowing beneath his palm.

“I would not wish to cross swords with you again,” Leofric says. They have long since made peace with the day they were forced to fight each other, but some acts risk cutting too close to the memory, regardless of whether they are borne of the same loyalty and respect.

“I know it, and nor do I,” Uhtred assures him. “But this is not like that. This is the furthest thing from it.”

The look in his eyes finally convinces Leofric to unsheathe his sword—a world away from the betrayal and pain of a decision far beyond their wishes. It is closer to the expression he wore leaning across a candlelit table as he dared to change everything between them.

“Leofric, for all you have given to me, you deserve honour beyond any title I could bestow,” Uhtred begins, placing his blade over Leofric’s with the point pressed into the dirt—a symbol of their commitment rather than raised in combat. “You have been my closest friend through treasured times, and those I find it easier to forget. No sane person would have faulted you for abandoning me, and yet you’ve stayed by my side, even when you received no kindness in return. We’ve fought beside each other as companions in countless battles, and while I admire your skill as a warrior, I find your devotion to our family and friends to burn pride most fiercely within me. Of all the oaths I have sworn, to be your husband is the only one I desire.”

Leofric cannot prevent the warm, unguarded smile tugging at his lips. For all the softer moments they have shared over the years, for each and every truth drawn from their tongues and given voice, it has been wholly beyond belief in hearing them vowed.

He replaces his sword over Uhtred’s, their positions reversed.

“We both know you’re a man more easily suited to grand speeches than I am, and I’ve certainly heard enough of them,” Leofric huffs, too overcome to sound as a laugh. Uhtred grins back at him, uncaring. “I know it’s been good to have you as my friend, and to be valued with your love. You showed me that belonging is different to being owned, even before I realised there was a distinction. Uhtred, regardless of where your path leads, no matter what your name is, I will follow you. As a sword I will fight for you, and as a shield I will defend you. As your husband, I can make no further promise than to love you, unfailing, until my last breath and then beyond.”

Their swords clatter to the ground, discarded in their tight embrace.


	8. Episode 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I struggled with it until I decided to focus on the wedding and their family which was the best decision!

Darkness gives way to dawn, light peeling at the edges of the horizon, and still they do not part.

“Come on,” Leofric urges gently, though makes no move to rouse himself. “Our absence will have been noticed. And your king awaits.”

Uhtred groans into his shoulder, warm breath heavy against the cloth. “A few moments longer, at least,” he says, quiet and cajoling. “I want to enjoy waking next to my husband for the first time.”

“If you expect me to weaken every time you use that argument, you’ll be sorely correct,” Leofric says, smirking up at the brightening sky. He feels Uhtred’s answering laugh as a huff of breath curving across his neck as he shifts against him, lips following in a light, teasing trail.

He lingers over Leofric’s scar, soft with desperation. “You are a warrior worthy of Valhalla,” he murmurs, the words bestowed as praise and a plea to the gods.

Leofric has never feared dying in battle, but now there is faith in that fate—of a pyre awaiting him, and a hall beyond.

Uhtred’s lips become hungry as they seek his own, wrenching him from all thoughts beyond this moment and the man above him. His husband. It still sounds as a strange chord in his mind, an unexpected note among the familiar, and all the more beautiful for it.

A groan leaves his throat, more at the absurd poetry Uhtred inspires within him, but Uhtred takes it as encouragement to deepen the kiss into something long and slow, teasing until he succeeds in drawing the sound from Leofric again.

“As soon as I’m made Lord, I’ll give you a wedding night to remember,” Uhtred says, with the promise of soft furs and long, stretching hours of privacy. He pulls away, slow with reluctance, only to fall back willingly when Leofric refuses to surrender him to his duty so soon.

They are owed this moment, after all the years they have yearned for it. The King can wait.

* * *

On their return to town, they are found by Stiorra first, framed in the open doorway of their lodgings with her hands on her hips, wearing an impatient expression reminiscent of her mother.

“Where have you been?” she demands, fixing them with an expectant stare and glancing between them for her answer. The sincere contentment she finds on their faces is enough to give her pause.

Leofric glances at Uhtred for his silent agreement, his hand a warm, encouraging weight on Leofric’s shoulder.

“I am your true family now, dear one,” Leofric tells her, feeling a sudden, sharp stab of nerves at the thought of not meeting with her approval.

Understanding dawns in her eyes, bright and delighted. “By the gods,” she says, wondrous—more of a question than an exclamation.

Leofric only has chance to nod before Uhtred’s hand falls from him, quelling the words on his tongue.

Uhtred is staring at his daughter in disbelief, unable to form a response for long moments. “You know my gods?” he manages, half-way to reaching for her.

Stiorra steps into his arms, strong and reassuring. “My mother taught me many things,” she says proudly, “and the rest I have learned myself. If the gods have given their blessing, then it is mine also.”

Leofric pulls them both close, knowing Uhtred to be as wordlessly grateful as himself.

“Do I still call you uncle?” Stiorra asks, voice muffled from being pressed between them. She makes no move to extricate herself.

“It would please me if you did,” Leofric smiles, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head. “I may love you as my own, but it is Uhtred’s honour to be your father.”

* * *

Uhtred is granted leave to visit the palace once Stiorra has extracted his promise that he will soon share the reason, leaving Leofric to enter their lodgings alone.

Osferth is seated within, eyes wide at the overheard news. “Is it true?” he asks quietly.

Leofric nods, uncertain as to whether there is allowance in his belief to accept an act entered into beyond the Church. He resists the urge to look away, to shield himself from Osferth’s expression—readied for anything but the awe he finds there.

“I’d never dreamed such things were possible,” Osferth says, hushed. His gaze flicks to where Finan sits, entertaining Aethelstan in the corner of the room. Their eyes meet over the boy’s head, an unspoken undercurrent of connection that Leofric understands.

“Nor did I,” he admits, fond with the moonlit memory of Uhtred’s proposal, “but some people are worth defying expectation for.”

A smile breaks across Osferth’s face as he clambers to his feet and enfolds himself in Leofric’s arms, filled with joy for their union and buoyed by hope for his own.

Stiorra joins them, ruffling Osferth’s hair as she passes. “We are kin, now, baby monk,” she throws over her shoulder. Osferth only laughs at the affectionate name, too used to hearing it from the mouths of those he cares about to mind.

“I am glad of it, sister warrior,” he returns.

* * *

Evening draws in, enticing them to the alehouse to celebrate Uhtred’s position. The men are more thrilled by the news than the Lord of Mercia himself, for all it will grant them, but there is enough in the oath to console Uhtred beyond wealth and power.

* * *

It is the harshest blow, therefore, for Aethelflaed to spurn Uhtred for his acceptance. Leofric finds him pacing in the prayer room, conflicted by more than his imminent baptism.

“I did this for her,” he bemoans, a white robe twisted between his hands. Being ruled by his heart only makes the breaking of it even more painful.

“I know it,” Leofric says, settling himself into a pew and willing Uhtred to face him. “And I have no doubt she respects you for the decision. The King could not have picked a more suitable leader, but Aethelflaed is right, any ruler imposed by Wessex cannot truly serve Mercia.”

A moment passes in silence, Uhtred’s gaze cast to the stone at his feet. “I cannot allow myself to be passed over in favour of another,” he mutters eventually. “I cannot abandon her.”

“Aethelflaed’s wish is for an independent Mercia,” Leofric reasons. “Yours is for a place where she can be safe. Perhaps the answer lies in one who can ensure both visions are achieved.”

Uhtred finally turns to face him, the stirrings of a plan alight in his eyes. It resolves him to bear the ignominy of preparing for another baptism, which must feel as an act of humiliation akin to crawling across a crowded courtyard. Leofric never thought to see him brought before God again.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, as Uhtred strips off his armour, piling cuirass, shirt and trousers onto the pew beside Leofric. There remains a faint bruising across his ribs from the beating received under his king’s command.

“I have no other choice,” Uhtred tells him, voice free of shame but aching with gratitude.

He takes the robe and holds it out to Leofric, kneeling before him. Any protest Leofric thinks to form dies on his tongue at the conviction in Uhtred’s eyes.

“Besides, it serves to bring me closer to you,” he adds, quietly. “For all you have sworn under my gods, allow me this.”

Leofric takes his hand from the lingering warmth of Uhtred’s leathers to accept the starched linen, fingers brushing Uhtred’s own as he withdraws. It should not feel as close to worship as it does.

He swallows under Uhtred’s unwavering gaze to place the garment over his head, smoothing the fabric across Uhtred’s shoulders as a priest bestows his blessing, absolution beneath his palms.

“I know I cannot speak for God,” Leofric murmurs, “but there is love enough in your heart for Heaven.”

Uhtred rises from his knees, head bowed to hold Leofric’s gaze. “I hope, if the time comes, He shares your thoughts,” he agrees.

* * *

Between one ceremony and the next, there is no further opportunity for discussion. Uhtred’s course is set, his heading determined.

“Take care,” Leofric beseeches him, in a brief stolen moment before the Witan gathers. “I do not think Edward will take too favourably to your decision.” He could not bear for Uhtred to be seized and locked away from him again.

“And you,” Uhtred returns, his voice holding both a plea and a question. Something nameless shifts in his expression. “I fear I cannot give you all I promised with as short a reign as mine will be.”

Leofric rolls his eyes fondly. “I care more for your integrity than a soft bed and closed doors, Uhtred. There will be plenty of time for us, after this. In Coccham, perhaps, if the King allows you to retain that title.”

Uhtred’s expression softens, his eyes shining even brighter in harmony with the deep blue of his tunic and robes. “Let us hope for that, then,” he says, reaching out to press Leofric’s hand.

Leofric watches him walk away with a prayer in his heart to whichever deity awaits them that Uhtred will return to him safely.

* * *

They reunite in the wake of Uhtred’s success, in the hall where a new queen sits on the throne—the rightful leader of Mercia, Lady Aethelflaed.

Leofric catches Aldhelm’s grateful glance, the pride in his eyes reflecting Leofric’s own at their respective partners.

“I believe we owe thanks to you, in part,” Aldhelm says, drawing away from Uhtred’s sole conference to accept Leofric into their conversation.

Leofric has no qualms about denying the fact. “A bold decision such as this can only have been one of Uhtred’s making,” he replies. “I only served to expand the list of potential rulers. My own suggestion was yourself.”

Aldhelm cannot entirely cover his surprise in the brief pause that follows. “Then you made the right call,” he says, his eyes finding Aethelflaed once more.

* * *

Their men are less enthused by Uhtred’s decision than those of Mercia, but no less supportive. A steady flow of ale and the knowledge of averting war between the two kingdoms is reward enough.

Uhtred, too, is subdued, though caused by the abrupt departure of his son, rather than his surrendered title.

“We will return to Coccham,” he informs them all, to relieved murmurings of assent.

Leofric holds his gaze across the table, enjoying the flush that rises high on his cheeks, warm with suggestion.


	9. Episode 9

Their preparations to return to Coccham suffer yet another setback on the eve of their departure. It is only a delay of a few more days, but the call of home becomes stronger over the company they keep.

“I’m going to stop announcing my plans,” Uhtred mutters to Leofric as they ride together at the head of the group. “The gods seem determined to taunt me at every turn.”

Leofric steals a careful glance behind them to the king’s widow, riding resolute and imperious beside her grandson. “This is divine penance, certainly,” he agrees.

For all her grateful words to Uhtred as they set up camp that evening, it is hard to reconcile the bitter, pious Lady Aelswith of their past with the woman standing before them now—no less pious, but quieter and more considered.

“The Lord forgives,” Leofric murmurs, once she has moved a safe distance away, “but I’m not sure I can forget.”

Uhtred meets his eyes over the axe as he lingers on a long stroke. He passes the hewn branch to Leofric, lips pursed in silent agreement. “I’m of use to her now,” he says, with a quick quirk of one eyebrow, soft and teasing.

“If you’re that susceptible to flattery, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re drawn into her plans,” Leofric returns, though the only heat in his tone comes from the appraising gaze he sweeps over Uhtred’s form, slow and deliberate. Uhtred fumbles the next branch between his fingers.

The cracking of nearby twigs draws their eyes from each other, and Leofric looks up to find Stiorra moving to join them.

“You two better not be flirting,” she announces, quieter than the crunch of leaves underfoot—a carefully controlled tease that cannot be overheard. Wise, considering their present company.

Still, she laughs when Uhtred makes an ill-mastered attempt to arrange his expression into perfect innocence—one he has never had much success in using, despite the need. “We were merely talking of the queen,” he says, unconvincingly.

Stiorra rolls her eyes, but does not dispute it. “She is very demanding, and gives no gratitude. I would have thought royalty should have better manners,” she mutters, plucking a fresh green leaf from the forest floor and stripping it with her thumbnail. “How long until we reach Bedwyn?”

“With luck by tomorrow if we do not keep stopping on the road to pray. Then we will go on to Coccham,” Uhtred promises, sensing the restless spirit within her as his own.

Stiorra’s response, however, is subdued and non-committal. “I do want to live alongside you,” she says, her apologetic gaze flitting between them. “It’s just... Coccham is small.”

Uhtred buries the blade of the axe into the earth. “It is peaceful, and safe,” he says, catching Leofric’s eyes on him. A single shared glance confirms they are thinking the same. Coccham is the closest to home they have ever known—the place that calls to the deep, quiet part of a warrior’s soul longing for rest.

For Stiorra, the unbroken happiness they found there lies beyond the realms of memory, rooted in her younger years. It only makes sense that another place should feel as home to her. Winchester will always be carved into their bones, inescapable.

In a wry twist of fate, Lady Aelswith is the one to save Uhtred from reply, and the memories they would sooner forget.

The sense of salvation does not last. Beyond their camp, Leofric hears a flutter of wings, of birds disturbed, and twigs snapping underfoot. “Uhtred,” he warns, hearing Finan call the same from the other clearing as a score of men emerge menacingly from the trees.

These are no traders. They are Danes.

“Uhtred, what a surprise,” a voice drawls, stepping out of the shadows.

It is Haesten—once more bearing news of his fellow Danes, and, as ever, eager to brag of it. He must be rivalling Uhtred in terms of fealties sworn, now. His new Lord is a boy without reputation, as Uhtred takes delight in taunting him.

Haesten does not rise to take the bait. “He is cunning,” he smirks. “Whilst you played Lord, and the Saxons fought amongst themselves... He captured Winchester.”

A soft gasp of breath from behind sounds with the rasp of swords being drawn. Haesten’s men have broken rank to seize their hostages.

“Yes, Lady Aelswith, you’re going home,” Haesten crows. “Take the girl too.”

Fear closes around Leofric’s throat, colder and sharper than steel. “Stiorra,” he breathes, torn from the same terror he hears reflected in Uhtred’s voice.

He is not sure which of them moves to hold the other back—an aborted step and a warning hand to still their sword. A challenge cannot be made here with any hope of success. They can only watch, powerless, as Stiorra is dragged from their side, her pale, terrified face fixed on them as the cart lurches away.

Haesten is not yet finished with his scheming. “Tie them,” he commands his men. Leofric feels a sword at his throat as eager hands dart out to secure Uhtred. “Leave them to die, slowly.”

It is too late to make a stand—they are surrounded, outnumbered. The only chance of escaping with their lives is to surrender themselves to the ignominy of being tied like lambs to the slaughter and wait for a weakness in their enemy’s defence.

* * *

Leofric wakes to a viciously pounding head, like a morning after too much ale. A monumental amount of ale, it seems—his cheeks flushed from long hours close to the fire, and building pressure around his ears and into the base of his skull. He cracks his eyes open with a groan.

Light filters in, bright and dappled—hazy shifting greens cut by blinding white and a spot of amber floating across his vision. Then Uhtred’s voice, repeating his name, softly, urgently. He leans into the words, expecting the curve of Uhtred’s body, warm against his. Instead there is the creak of rope, high above, and the faint cracking of bark like a bough close to breaking.

Memory hits with the sharp, sudden clarity of a cold pail of water to draw him from drunken stupor—of Haesten’s men, the brief ensuing fight, and their inevitable surrender.

“Leofric,” Uhtred says, again, and this time, Leofric hears the plea in his tone—the fierce concern and desperation behind it.

“‘M alrigh’,” he manages, a low grunt through rough, dry throat as Uhtred sends praise to the gods. The last thing he remembers is the surge of rage at Haesten laying his hands on Uhtred, bound at his mercy, and rearing up to the claiming darkness beyond. “Are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Uhtred assures him, even as Leofric fights against the burn of rope securing his ankles and wrists to see the truth of it for himself.

Uhtred sways before him, disorienting except for the way he has always been the one still point to fix on when all other direction is lost. Leofric sags against his bonds in relief, finding him unharmed.

Uhtred looks as though he would fight an entire army of Danes just to hold Leofric in that moment. “I know you vowed to defend me, but don’t ever scare me like that again,” he says.

* * *

They are rescued by Eadith, safely concealed in the forest during their confrontation with Haesten and his men, and awaiting the opportune moment to strike.

She cuts them down from the tree, freeing a panicking Sihtric first, then, at Uhtred’s request, moving to release Leofric. He rubs gratefully at his wrists to draw sensation back into his hands, crouched over to tug at the ropes binding his ankles as Eadith continues in her task.

She lowers Osferth to the ground with gentle hands, a brief brush of her fingertips to his forehead.

“You’re an angel,” he tells her fondly, his hand lingering on her shoulder—Finan mirroring the touch after they have worked him free together, Eadith’s hand curved tenderly against his cheek and Osferth’s settled at his back.

Leofric takes the axe from his nephew’s unresisting grip, sharing a quick relieved glance with him before turning to free Uhtred from his bonds.

“Hold onto me,” he says as Uhtred shakes the tension from his shoulders, wrapping numb arms around Leofric’s waist before he brings the axe up to slash the tethering rope. Leofric holds him steady at the sudden release of weight as Uhtred flips to his feet and into his arms for a rough, breathless hug.

“Come on,” he pants desperately into Leofric’s ear, “we must get to Stiorra.”

They pull apart just far enough for Leofric to get to his knees in front of Uhtred and free his feet, Uhtred’s hands clutching at his shoulders. He is gone from him the moment the rope slackens and falls.

“Move,” Uhtred calls to the men, already halfway into the trees. Leofric retrieves his sword from the earth. “They cannot have taken them far.”

* * *

On foot, they cannot reach Stiorra before she is trapped within the walls of Winchester, once a place of safety, now under siege. Sigtryggr is more cunning than his kin.

“What if we cannot find a way in?” Uhtred says, close to despair. Even if they make it through the gate, they are known in town and palace and would not remain undiscovered for long.

“Stiorra’s strong, and sensible,” Leofric says, aiming to reassure him, though the words ring hollow within his own heart, rooted deep in fear. “She’ll keep herself safe.”

It is Eadith who comes to their rescue once more. “I could go in,” she offers. Osferth stiffens beside her in alarm. “I’ve not been here, I will not be noticed,” she reasons.

“You do not have to do this,” Finan says under the weight of Osferth’s beseeching gaze.

Eadith is unwavering, steadfast and certain—a soft hand to quieten Osferth’s doubts and soft eyes to assure Finan—parting with them both in equal fervour.

* * *

Long hours drag by, slow and silent in the still, heavy air.

“Since when do we sit on our arses waiting for royalty?” Finan mutters darkly, restless with inaction and concern. “What happened to the man who always ran into battle?”

Uhtred’s eyes are a maelstrom of frustration and despair. “I lost Beocca in my haste at Bebbanburg,” he says brokenly, sharp as cut glass. “Understand if I try to find a more cautious path.”

Finan deflates immediately, belligerence replaced by understanding. “I’ll be quiet,” he says in gentle apology. “I’m an arseling.”

Uhtred’s lips quirk even as he presses Leofric’s hand tightly in his own. “We care for the people within,” he murmurs. “It puts us at a disadvantage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finan/Osferth/Eadith is my new jam okay


	10. Episode 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the delay, I was really busy at work these last couple of weeks and celebrated my birthday in the middle of it, so most of this was written today. Bon appetit!

For thirty days they endure under assault, despite the King’s futile attempts to reclaim the heart of Wessex. Thirty days sheltered under the same tree, on the same patch of dried grassy earth, watching good men being led to slaughter and unable even to bury the fallen. It is enough to turn the stomach of any hardened warrior—yet they must remain unbowed, determined.

Only in their tent, late at night when all is dark and the only sounds to be heard are the soft scratch of scurrying rats and the faint cracking burn of torches, does Leofric dare to reach across the chasm between them and draw Uhtred close, laying down their burden with gentle hands to seek comfort in each other. There is no thought left to be shared, no fears, no plans—just the grateful touch of lips and bodies moving together in quiet desperation.

For thirty nights, with Uhtred by his side, it is easier to nurture a small ember of hope that they might all emerge from the siege unscathed.

Then Edward takes that hope and sets it ablaze, resolved to leaving only charred remains behind him.

“Has he gone mad?” Uhtred exclaims with quiet horror, drawing Leofric’s attention from his stricken face to the Saxon encampment and the soldiers caught in his riveted gaze, bearing torches aflame.

“He intends to set a fire,” Leofric says flatly, throat tight with aching dread.

Uhtred fixes him with wild eyes, hand almost outstretched to reach for his. Leofric has a half-thought to take it, to permit themselves some release from the creeping sense of foreboding stealing over their skin. “A fool’s errand,” Uhtred mutters. “If it catches, the town will be destroyed.”

Negotiation or surrender, Danes or Saxons, warriors or captives—fire will raze it all to the ground without mercy.

“There must be another way,” Leofric tries. “We could endure a longer siege if the King were not so determined to lose men in their dozens on a daily basis.”

Uhtred’s expression hardens into resolve, his gaze falling from Leofric to settle on the unbreachable walls beyond. “I will speak with Edward,” he agrees. “Sigtryggr may be willing to strike a bargain. He does not seem the type to relish unnecessary bloodshed. If I could find a way in...”

Fear clenches in Leofric’s chest like a steel hoop lashed around his heart. “A fool’s errand,” he says, returning Uhtred’s scornful words without hope of being heeded.

“I do not see we have another choice,” Uhtred says. “If Winchester falls, if it burns, all England will be lost.”

A laugh forces itself from Leofric’s throat, harsh and humourless. “Without you, it may as well be ashes.”

The quiet confession stretches beyond his own bitter reluctance to surrender Uhtred to his fate and the certain knowledge of following him there—beyond this moment, to an agreement made between a visionary king and a young man who would become the Saxons’ greatest warrior, in a loyalty to last the ages.

Uhtred does take his hand, then, a fleeting press of fingers, entwined. “I know,” he says softly, and goes to the King.

* * *

In the end, it is Sigtryggr’s cunning that extinguishes the fire and seals Uhtred’s fate. For all Edward’s obstinance, no man deserves to endure the agony of being forced to choose between those they love. The broken howl of pain that echoes through their camp is not the raging lament of a surrendering king, but a desperate father facing an impossible decision.

It is true for Uhtred, too, Leofric realises, watching him clasp his son close without Stiorra by their side.

“Are you going to do something foolish?” Young Uhtred asks, cutting through the sound of Edward’s bone-chilling sobs to fear’s heart itself.

“Are you going to stop me?” Uhtred returns, and though his eyes are fixed on his son, Leofric knows the words are aimed at him.

There is no other choice. Whether it be fathers or sons, husbands or daughters, the deal is the same—condemn one to save another. One man’s life in exchange for countless others is a brave bargain, but one with greater odds and higher reward. It does not change simply because that life is Uhtred’s.

“I won’t,” Leofric murmurs, even as Uhtred meets his gaze warily. “Brave men are often mistaken for fools by those too blinded to see the difference,” he adds softly as they fall into step together, heading for the King’s tent.

Uhtred brushes the backs of his fingers gratefully against Leofric’s, a deliberate touch concealed as accidental. “You should not have to hear this,” he says with quiet reluctance. “I am willing to make the trade, but...”

“If it would make it harder to say what must be said, I will go,” Leofric concedes, though he would rather remain at Uhtred’s side. “The King must be convinced. There is too much at stake.”

He feels the weight of Uhtred’s gaze on him as he turns away, returning instead to Young Uhtred, head bowed as if in prayer. Leofric settles a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, reaching for reassurance and unable to find the words.

“I know, now, why you chose to make your home with him,” Young Uhtred says eventually, with a reverence beyond piety. “He is a great man, and a great father. To make such a sacrifice for another’s children, to spare him the choice, that is—”

“That is Uhtred,” Leofric says simply, his eyes drawn to the shift of canvas at the edge of his vision, and the welcome sight of Uhtred striding towards them.

It is done, and cannot be delayed any longer. Uhtred presses a quick kiss to his son’s forehead, murmuring quiet confidences.

“I only hope you’re right about this Sigtryggr,” Leofric tells him as they move away, the gates looming closer with every step.

“So do I,” Uhtred admits. His lips quirk in an approximation of a smile. “Still, plenty of Danes have wanted my head, this is nothing new,” he adds.

“That’s not as reassuring as you’d have me believe,” Leofric huffs, close to a laugh.

“How about I’ve been hostage to the Danes before and survived?” Uhtred suggests, as though Leofric needs reminding of Werham or the long weeks he spent convinced of Uhtred’s death. It is not an experience he ever wished to repeat—but he will endure it.

“Uhtred,” he says, without warning or caution, simply to have the name leave his tongue with Uhtred alive to hear it, even for the last time. This is nothing like Werham, despite the few similarities Uhtred might choose to draw from it. Even Brida’s presence within the walls is certain to serve as his doom over his salvation, this time.

Uhtred curves his hand to the nape of Leofric’s neck, drawing him close with aching understanding. “We will see each other again,” he promises, leaning up to press their foreheads together, gentle and lingering.

 _In this life or the next_ , Leofric thinks fiercely, as Uhtred is swallowed by shadows, closed gates stealing him from view.

* * *

Uhtred’s sword is discovered the next morning, thrown from the ramparts.

Leofric places his hand on Young Uhtred’s shoulder, waiting for the numbness to condense into a grief that does not come.

“Do not lose faith,” the boy says, bold in the face of Edward’s immediate willingness to concede defeat. “He will have survived.”

Finan, Osferth and Sihtric are next to lend supportive voices to the clamour, shaking off any doubts whose thin tendrils might have snaked fear into their hearts. Edward does not know Uhtred like they do.

The King does not yield to their pleas. “It is painful to speak it,” he says, unmoved, “but your Lord has lost a battle he could never win. There is no hope for him.”

Treacherous hands place Uhtred’s sword upon the table as one would lay a body to rest. The glinting amber shames Leofric into finding his own voice—a reminder of the vow he made to Uhtred to fight for him, even in circumstances as unforeseen as this.

“Lord King,” he says, strong and certain, doubt resolving to determination with every word. “I have been Uhtred’s man since you were no more than a babe in your mother’s arms, and I swear to you, this does not mean the end.” Edward’s expression remains unconvinced and uncompromising, forcing Leofric to reach for the final damning defence he wished to avoid, as though speaking it into existence might make it true. “If they had killed the man they call the Dane-slayer, we would know.”

There is further persuasion to wield, sharp and cutting. If Uhtred were dead, more would be returned to them than simply his sword. The news would be cried from the battlements with devastating jubilance.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Edward doesn’t even appear to weigh the words before announcing his intentions. “Leofric, I appreciate your candour, but we cannot afford to show weakness in the face of an affront such as this. The armies of Mercia are upon us. An attack cannot be delayed.”

Further argument would win them no allowance. They must prepare for a battle that Uhtred would not want, especially one to be fought in his name.

* * *

The first Leofric sees of Uhtred, his lithe figure carving a path towards the King, there is no time to indulge in the relief threatening to overwhelm him.

It comes, instead, in the wake of Brida’s attack after the battle is finished. Though Uhtred’s blood stains the water and cloth Leofric presses to the wound, it is superficial—enough to scar, but cause no further inconvenience once healed. Beyond the courtyard, across the square, Finan and Osferth are bandaging a similar wound for Eadith, pained but alive.

To be reunited with those they love is enough to restore their spirit.

It is what makes the news of Sigtryggr’s bargain so difficult to bear. The price for peace is the highest they have ever paid.

Uhtred holds Stiorra tightly, as though the thought of seeing her again has been the only thing keeping him alive, aching with reluctance to ever surrender her again. Leofric draws them both into his embrace, urged by the same feeling.

Stiorra, however, is reconciled to her duty. “I’m willing to go,” she informs them earnestly, her arguments mustered in rows like soldiers in a shield wall. From their ranks, a final damning confession is launched.

“Besides, Sigtryggr is gentle,” she murmurs softly, only realising her mistake when Uhtred’s expression darkens in outrage. “He’s a man of honour,” she protests, hastening to salve the misunderstanding.

“Oh,” Uhtred says, caught between a smirk and surprise.

“Ah,” Leofric agrees. Even innocence cannot cover her depth of feeling. “And you’re sure you’ve had enough time to be certain of his character?”

“Most of us do not get years to decide,” she retorts, then softens at Leofric’s concerned gaze. “I am,” she assures him. “He has been my sole companion these long weeks. There is care in his attention.” Her pleading eyes turn to Uhtred. “Please, father, give me this chance to discover where my own path will lead. Let me go, and I promise I will make you proud.”

“You always have, little one,” Uhtred murmurs, his lips brushing her temple. “One day, I hope, the gods will lead you back to us.”

* * *

A familiar face finds them amidst the smoke and rubble once Stiorra and Young Uhtred have departed.

“Praise God,” Hild says, reaching for long awaited safety in their arms. Leofric presses a relieved kiss to her forehead, too full for words.

“Where have you been?” Uhtred murmurs into her hair, a wild rush of breath as the last tightly-pressed coil of tension unwinds.

“I’ve escaped from Danes in Winchester before,” she says with a wan smile, pressing their hands firmly in both of her own. The years seem to fall away in remembrance, and for a moment, it feels as though Iseult is with them in the shadow of their embrace. “I always knew where I would go, should it happen again,” Hild adds, quiet as the grave.

It is a testament to her strength that she chooses to return time after time in the wake of all her suffering within these walls.

“You could come with us, to Coccham,” Uhtred entreats her, as every time they are reunited for an all too brief moment.

“I cannot,” she replies softly, as every time he asks the same. “Winchester will need faith to rebuild. I am needed here.” She gazes at Uhtred with mournful eyes, the curve of her hand to his cheek serving as the only comfort in her condolences for the losses he has suffered—at Bebbanburg and beyond.

They part on the palace steps, beneath the arches, tired of goodbyes and aching for the solace of home.

* * *

Uhtred holds a celebratory feast upon their return to Coccham, welcomed in high spirits by their men and village alike. From hall to river, the estate throngs with people and song, spurred to merriment with ever-increasing amounts of ale.

They finally fall into bed in the early hours between dusk and dawn, faint sounds of revelry still issuing from the courtyard beyond the doors.

“I couldn’t give you a wedding feast, but I hope tonight made up for it,” Uhtred murmurs, easing Leofric to the furs with gentle strength, fire-warm hands claiming his skin like a brand.

“Uhtred,” Leofric huffs, drawing away from his body enough to fix him with a despairing glare. “Please don’t tell me you spent all this money on my account.”

“No,” Uhtred hums, affecting an air of innocence, and, as usual, unable to carry it off.

Leofric rolls his eyes fondly, darting up to plant a quick kiss to Uhtred’s chest, over his heart, framed by the deep cut of his shirt before he encourages it over his head.

“I suppose I can’t fault you for it,” he allows, remembering Uhtred’s shame at the thought of being unable to fulfil the promises of their wedding night. “If anything, I’m glad to see Finan is already teaching Edward’s aetheling how to hold his ale. I think he’ll be a good influence on the boy.”

Uhtred shares briefly in his laugh before sobering once more. The intent in his eyes is clear as he leans closer, straddling Leofric’s body with supple strength.

“I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?” he murmurs hotly, parted lips tracing a path from the shell of Leofric’s ear to hover over his mouth.

“We have,” Leofric agrees, pinned by the lingering weight of Uhtred’s expectant gaze. “My husband.”

Uhtred finally closes the scant space between them to kiss the endearment off his lips, warm and fierce.

These are the blissful hours of soft furs and closed doors long-denied to them—a renewed commitment in every touch, words replaced with actions to speak of hope for their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So literally the day after I post this we get the renewal announcement! To all my dedicated readers and reviewers, thank you, and see you on the flip side ♥️


End file.
